Shaved pussy is the worst. Results last 20 minutes, and thereafter your lady garden is condemned to a bristly friction burn that turns inexplicably quickly from “Mmmm, all this exposed skin means I can make myself cum while running for the bus!” to “God, my bum is really bloody sore.”
It takes some serious work, too, razoring your fanny. But to get pubic hair lasered off, as I am currently doing, you have to shave first. It only works on exposed skin.
Permanent hair removal is a no-brainer for me. Schlepping to the salon every month to have hair ripped sadistically from the root in order to feel clean, and, as an added bonus, sexy, is an unnecessary torture when a lifelong solution exists on this mortal coil.
I’d heard rumours that lasers near the womb could damage what it takes to reproduce, and my boss, who had laser hair removal on her clunge ten years ago, told me she’d had to bite down on a belt to help the pain.
But I bite down on my own fist when I get waxed, and that will continue every four weeks until the end of all time without the interruption of a lasting resolution. With Google abating my infertility fears, and a general devil-may-care attitude I inherited from my father, I figured GO TEAM and booked an appointment because, shaving in prep aside, I figured what’s the worst that could happen?
My instruction was to turn up bald of pubis, with assurance that it wouldn’t hurt a bit. A ten-minute consultation with a quick patch test on my thigh one evening after work confirmed this, to my heavy relief. I waited two weeks to conclude my body wasn’t allergic to the process or wouldn’t react in any weird way, and then headed back to the clinic for my first full session.
I wasn’t nervous until I was naked from the waist down.
I was assured by my Disney-smile therapist, Shelly, that even as we got to my very sensitive bits there’d be no pain: new technology means that an in-motion device cools skin while hot laser simultaneously permeates the dermis to zap hair from the root, ultimately making it fall out. Shelley had me lie down on the raised bed, my bajingo on full show, and slathered on a clear gel which, let’s be honest, I’m no stranger to down there. Then, with a contraption similar to what I saw them use on Kim’s pregnant belly on Keeping Up With The Kardashians, I had a sort of front bottom ultrasound.
She took my snatch section by section, each period lasting about a minute. Rubbing the laser over my skin felt warm, like peeing in the bath, and I was asked over and over again if I felt comfortable.
Mostly I did -- except for when I turned over and Shelley had to dry shave a bit of my bum crack that I’d missed. That was more a discomfort of my perfectionism though. I’d wanted to be the valedictorian of the shower shave, and my therapist’s “quick tidy up” meant that obviously that is a victory awaiting some other bald eagle.
The only pain I encountered was a sort of electric shock to my bum cheek that felt like a rubber band being flicked up against my skin. A quick sting. Just once. I yelped like a pathetic monk parakeet, and Shelley explained that the laser hit upon a stubborn hair that she’d had to wrestle with.
I don’t know why I just anthropomorphized a laser into a female, except for it was so gentle and painless that it was like a mother tucking her weirdly hairless child into bed. That must be why.
I sheepishly asked if Shelley had managed to get, “Like, urm… everywhere?” by which I meant yeah, but even the inner lips bit too. I couldn’t really tell, and it seemed rude to insist that she open my flaps and really get in there. But it’s also important to me not to cultivate a vagina Hiltler mustache, a tiny strip of minge fuzz, anywhere on my cooch.
Time will tell. Hair grows in cycles, so what was attacked in my first session won’t be what is zapped in the second.
Every time I go back -- about six sessions in total, spaced roughly a month apart -- there should be less and less hair as it gradually falls out. By the time we’re done, I can expect to be more or less permanently breezy -- not to mention considerably wealthier when I’m saving fifty big ones on a monthly wax.
All in, a course of six treatments is about $1,000: just a little over my annual waxing budget.
Wait, what? I only just did that maths. I was spending a thousand bucks a year on WAXING, when some weeks I can’t even afford to eat? I’ve suddenly just realised that my priorities have probably been somewhat skewered. I mean, with good hair-free reason, but still. Over a decade that’s like the equivalent to the down payment on an apartment.
Reason 1,286 to get laser hair removal: the financial benefits pay for themselves.
I’ve been asked by many if I risk coming to regret the irreversible decision to have a hairless vagina (well- bar the odd “maintenance” session, Shelley advised). I don’t think I will.
“But what if you have a lover who is into hair?” some have cried, to which I say: even then, it will be my fairy, and no matter what a man says I’ll groom it just the way I like it. If my hairlessness is going to be a deal breaker then I don’t really think we had a deal to begin with.
Also: with a wide-set vagina and a heavy flow, ain’t nobody gotta experience the gross factor of sleeping with a sanitary towel between bushy thighs come menstruation. You know what a full bush looks like when it bleeds? Mediaeval carnage. That’s what. I simply find a hairless minge cleaner, and I don’t think I’m ever going to be persuaded otherwise.
The good news is that my remaining pubes have grown out long enough now to be soft and comforting, working hard like a balding man with a comb-over to compensate for the current patchy bits.
The bad news is that I’ve got five more sessions to go, which means five more shower shaves - and to reiterate, shaved pussy really is the worst.